


Birthday for Bird Boy, or Steve Rogers versus the Cyclone

by LizzieHarker



Series: A Comedy of Arrows [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: A Comedy of Arrows, Arrowsverse, Bucky is gonna make sure he gets one, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton's birthday, Clint and Bucky BFFs, Clint deserves a nice day, Comedy, Coney Island, Gen, M/M, Sorry Steve, Steve still hates roller coasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, is the world's greatest sharp-shooter.It's also his birthday, but he doesn't celebrate.His BFF, Bucky Barnes, isn't having it. Clint finds himself dragged off to Coney Island for a day of fun with Buck and Steve.One bird boy plus two supersoldiers is bound to equal hijinks.Oh, did we mention Steve is still scared of the Cyclone?





	Birthday for Bird Boy, or Steve Rogers versus the Cyclone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamcoffeehawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamcoffeehawk/gifts).



> Look, this is 5k and I'm too lazy to edit, but today is CoffeeHawk's birthday and I wanted to post it. I'm sure I'll clean it up later. Maybe.
> 
> Happy birthday, bro!

Clint had just flopped down on his couch beside Bucky when his phone went off. Bucky arched a brow as Clint pulled it from his back pocket. Natasha’s name flashed on the screen. Clint swiped to view the message and snorted. A little French bulldog wearing a party hat wiggled up at him, “Happy Birthday” written across the bottom in sparkling purple letters. He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a grin.

“What is it?” Buck asked, idly scratching between Lucky’s ears. That dog was such lush. Definitely a good boy.

“Just Nat.” Clint angled the phone to show Bucky the text. She hadn’t missed a single year since they’d met; it made him miss her a little bit more. “Sends one every year. Always a different dog.” When Bucky didn’t answer, Clint looked up to find him staring. “What?”

“Today’s your birthday?” He sounded baffled and, if Clint wasn’t mistaken, slightly offended.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. June . . . something.” He checked his phone. “Eighteenth. Why?”

Bucky didn’t blink. He loved the guy, but Clint had to admit it was kinda unnerving. “Today is your birthday and you didn’t tell me?”

Clint shrugged, pocketing his phone. “I don’t celebrate. Haven’t since . . . well. Not in a long time.”

He didn't want to talk about.

A line appeared between Bucky’s brows. “But it’s your birthday. And you didn’t tell me. I realize I’m not your only Russian bestie, but c’mon, man. You celebrated _my_ birthday.”

He shifted, uncomfortable. “Nice guilt trip. I haven’t . . . I was five the last time and it didn’t—“

Clint was saved the effort of explaining—well, lying— by Bucky pulling him off the couch with one hand while he fired off a text with the other. He dragged Clint out of the apartment without a word. To his credit, Clint kept up with the angry supersoldier muttering things about bullshit and birthdays hauling him down the street toward the subway.

“Buck, where are we going?” he asked, slipping through the turnstile. Bucky refused to let go of his hand, and he didn’t speak as they boarded the train. He checked his phone once, nodded to himself, and sent another message. Clint hunched into his seat, watching the tunnels and landscape go by. 

About five minutes later, he realized they were headed to Coney Island. Clint couldn’t quite keep the tension from his shoulders. Bucky eyed him. He tried to relax. Coney Island was definitely more carnival than circus, and it’d been years since he’d visited.

The moment the train doors opened, Bucky stood and tugged him onto the boardwalk, thankfully more eager than angry. Scattered posters proclaimed the Mermaid Parade from the day before and Clint felt a little disappointed he’d missed it. He’d never met a mermaid. 

A muted version of _Star-Spangled Man_ sounded from Bucky’s back pocket. Clint giggled as Buck answered. “Hey. Yeah, we just got off. Great. Yeah, I see you,” he said. Sure enough, Steve waited on the other side of the gates. 

He smiled at them, waving. “I didn’t know which passes to get so I got all of them. Figured we can pick and choose. Well, Clint can. Happy birthday.” 

Clint took the pass Steve offered him, feeling a little awkward and a little on edge. “Thanks.”

Bucky nudged Clint’s shoulder. “What do you wanna do first?”

Clint looked past them at the rows of shops and bright lights. He could smell the horrible, greasy street fare. He _was_ hungry. Food, he could handle. “Hot dogs. Definitely hot dogs.”

The three of them beelined for Nathan’s. Clint reached for his wallet, only to have Bucky shove him outta the way. “Your money’s no good, bro. We got this.”

Okay, there was no way Buck knew about the mafia money. Sure, they’d beaten the Draculas together but— Oh. Wait. Clint blinked. Steve had gotten them the passes. Bucky was picking up lunch. He shifted his weight, more uneasy. “You don’t . . . have to pay for me.”

Steve scoffed. “We don’t _have_ to do anything; we want to. It’s our treat.”

“Fine, but I’m getting dessert.”

“You can have whatever you want, pal,” Bucky said. 

A knot of tension settled in his chest. Why were they doing this? It wasn't like he didn't know what birthdays were supposed to be like, but . . . it was a birthday. Lots of people were born. That didn’t make it anything special. But if it made them happy, Clint guessed he could along for the ride. The noise of the boardwalk was playing holy hell on his ears though. 

After finishing his hot dogs, he ducked into the arcade. It helped a little. Bucky followed, the bewilderment on his face priceless. 

“What is all this?”

Clint chuckled. “What? You’ve never been to an arcade?”

“It's been a century or so. There were fewer neon lights.”

Steve knocked into Bucky’s shoulder, pointing. “They still have skee-ball.”

“You guys are so old,” Clint teased, rolling his eyes. “Lucky for you, I’m amazing at skee-ball.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet; Bucky plucked it out of his hand. “Oh, c’mon, man. Lemme get the tokens so I can smoke your assess. It’s not fair to make you pay for the crushing defeat you’re about to endure.”

Bucky simply tucked Clint’s wallet into his jacket. “Nope.”

Clint huffed. He was already gonna win, but now he was gonna be a showoff about it. He was gonna be rich in tickets. Filthy rich.

It took about thirty seconds for Steve and Bucky to realize they were, in fact, outmatched. Clint tossed a few shots underhand, sinking the ball into the highest space each time. Then he twisted his arm behind his back and did the same thing.

“How?” Steve asked, baffled, his hands already full of tickets. 

Clint wondered if he could win the whole roll. He was sure gonna try. “World’s best marksman, boys. I never miss. Ever.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “I thought that was a gimmick with the arrows.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Clint switched hands and closed his eyes; the ball rolled up the path right into the top ring. “Didn’t know I had this accuracy thing going on until I shot my first arrow." He grinned at the memory. "Nothing’s ever been better than that first shot, right through the bullseye.”

He tried not to think about his time in the circus, but the second he'd picked up that bow, Clint knew what he was meant for. That he was extremely good at it only made things better. Each trick shot he’d mastered increased his confidence; he was proud of himself, of what he could do, and felt amazing to finally have a purpose. The happy memories were few and far between, but Clint was never going to forget that one.

He glanced over at the guys; Steve gave up trying to neatly fold the tickets, letting them pile around his feet, but Bucky wore a tiny grin. 

“You usually don’t talk this much, Clint,” Steve said. He grunted as Bucky’s elbow connected with his ribs. “It’s nice,” he added, glaring.

A spike a dread shot through him, but Clint managed to keep his expression neutral. That was twice today he'd let a secret slip. But this was Steve and Bucky. He hadn’t given away anything he regretted. Bucky hadn’t asked about previous birthdays, and they knew he was an archer. Maybe . . . maybe opening up a little wasn’t so bad. Clint returned Bucky’s grin. “Plus, me talking is an excellent distraction.” 

He sank the last wooden ball into the cup. A grinding sound came from the machine as the tickets clicked to a halt, a tiny column of smoke rising from the back. “Aw, futz.”

The three of them looked around, gathered the tickets, and walked to the other side of the arcade. A group of kids stood in front of the prize counter as a girl pressed her fingers into the glass in excitement. She beamed, bouncing on her toes as the arcade guy counted her tickets. Behind her, two older boys snickered.

Clint saw Steve’s eyes narrow. Oh hell.

“I’m afraid you don’t have enough, kid,” the teenager said. “You can get one of these things.” He jerked a thumb at the collection of junk behind him.

“But Darren said there was enough. He counted them and everything.”

One of the boys snorted again. “Sorry, sis. You’re not old enough for the cool stuff anyway.”

Clint frowned as the boy handed over a larger stack of tickets and claimed one of the slight-less-shitty prizes. He’d bet his second best bow that little shithead had taken his sister’s winnings. Kids were futzing awful. He stepped up to the counter, arms full. “How many is she short?”

“Like, 2,500, man.”

He dropped his collection on the counter. “This enough?”

“Uh . . . probably? But I think the kid’s right. She’s kinda young.”

Clint turned to the girl. “I'm not. What did you want?” She stared up at him for a minute, then pointed to the Junior Miss Quiver Kit. Clint brightened. “I’ll spare you the trouble of counting all these if you hand over the arrows and call it a day.”

The guy shrugged. “Deal. Which color?”

“Purple,” the girl answered.

“You got it.” Clint took the archery set and handed it to her; her face lit up. “Have fun. I totally won’t tell if you wanna nail your brother with one of those sucker tips.”

“Thanks, mister.” She flashed him a smile before turning to her siblings, that sweet grin going devious.

“That was sweet, Clint,” Steve said when he rejoined them. “You made her day.”

Clint gave a half shrug and dropped his arms around Steve’s and Bucky’s shoulders. “Next event, boys?”

“Boardwalk?” Bucky suggested.

The three of them left the arcade, and Clint scanned the collection of billboards and fliers. Other then the Mermaid Parade, he didn’t spy much of interest until another ratty poster proclaimed a now-closed Captain America exhibit at the Coney Island Museum. Nudging Bucky with his elbow, Clint nodded at the poster. “What do ya say?”

“Yes.”

“Bucky, no,” Steve answered, but they were already headed toward the museum.

“C’mon, Steve,” Clint said, dragging them into the building. The creepy little museum was in a poor state, but what did he expect? Tourist traps weren't exactly known to be glamorous.

“We can’t just sneak in,” Steve whispered.

Bucky snorted. “Why the hell not? You’re not wearing a terrible hoodie or aviators, so the chances of anyone noticing you are slim.”

Steve’s expression went flat. Bucky pressed a kiss to his cheek with a loud smack. “Fine.”

“Woo hoo!” Clint held up his hands; Buck hi-fived him, Steve left him hanging. Rude.

The other exhibits were largely unimpressive, a typical assortment of touristy garbage and circus sideshow artifacts. If he paused at the funhouse mirrors, it absolutely wasn’t because seeing Steve scrawny and short wasn’t as funny as his baffled expression. He thought he caught a hint of nostalgia in Bucky’s eyes, but they were already in the next room, the door firmly shut, a sign proclaiming EXHIBIT CLOSED tacked up beside it. 

“Are you guys gonna let me pick the lock or you wanna do that, too?” Clint asked, not bothering to hold back his sarcasm.

Bucky gestured at the door. “It’s your birthday, bird boy. You wanna continue your impeccable record of B&Es, you be my guest.”

He rolled his eyes. That was one time. Okay, maybe a handful of times. “No breaking. Just entering.”

“That’s what he said.”

Steve flushed.

The lock wasn’t much of a challenge, but given the state of the rest of the joint, Clint wasn’t surprised. It’s not like they’d have anything valuable in the Cap exhibit anyway.

With a pop, the door swung open on a shining sea of red, white, and blue. Steve groaned, ducking his head against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky, because he’s an ass, started humming Star-Spangled Man. Clint squinted against the unholy glitter of sequins. He'd never seen so much USO Tour stuff in his life. 

“Please, no,” Steve mumbled, and Bucky stopped, patting his head.

“Stevie, you were always my favorite chorus girl,” Bucky offered. 

Steve shoved him. 

Clint hadn’t known what to expect, but couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. He didn’t know much about Steve’s time on the circuit, but Steve was being extra nice to Clint and standing there, he looked genuinely uncomfortable. It was one thing to tease, but this was something else.  
“Let’s go,” Clint suggested, but Bucky was already halfway through the exhibit.

“Aw, Stevie, look,” Bucky said. “How’d they get these?”

Steve shuffled over, peering into the case. “Oh, wow.”

Resigned, Clint followed. The case held five opened folders, each draft card stamped 4F. A picture of Steve before the serum sat along side them. Clint had seen that photo before; everyone in the world had seen it, but he’d never had Steve and a photo of Steve in the same room. He glanced between the two. “Huh,” was his only comment. It was difficult to reconcile the bony kid in the picture with the broad shouldered guy standing next to him.

“Is it even legal to display my draft cards?” Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged.

Clint twisted his mouth. “You enlisted five times?”

“No, I was rejected five times,” Steve corrected. “Erskine finally gave me a chance when he decided I was the one best suited for the serum. Everyone seemed to think I was too weak to really fight, even though I outsmarted them all.”

Bucky pulled him close. “You were never weak a day of your life.”

“I know, but it feels weird to have so much of . . . well, me on display. Like I’m some sorta sideshow. Like I was smaller than I was. It makes me feel small now, cheapens how I felt when I finally came through the process.” Steve shrugged. 

The only other person more tightlipped about his past than Clint was Steve. He glanced around the displays and realized Steve was right: Captain America had been just another gimmick. Clint knew that feeling all too well.

“I don’t think you ever talked about it,” Bucky said, and for a second, Clint’s pulse tripped higher, but Bucky was looking at Steve.

Steve shrugged again. “It hurt. I told you that much. Needles and electricity and vita-rays. But when the doors opened, I took the first real breath I’d taken in my life. My lungs worked, my spine was straight, I could hear perfectly. Moving wasn't a challenge. Living wasn't agony. I hadn’t known how bad off I’d been until I wasn’t anymore. And then I still had to prove that I deserved to fight.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “You were always my hero. Still are. And all this,” Bucky said, gesturing at the exhibit, “is just one more thing you’ve overcome. Clint’s right. Let’s get outta here.”

Lacing their fingers together, Bucky pulled Steve along behind him. Clint stopped at another display containing a worn brown leather sketchbook. Bucky’d mentioned that a number of Steve’s sketchbooks were donated to museums across America, but Steve hated them being on display. Slipping the latch wasn’t difficult, and he removed the book without issue. Now there was one fewer for him to worry about. Clint would give it back to him later.

People still crowded the boardwalk, but it was nice to be back outside. Clint slid over to a cotton candy vendor and bought a stick, all red, white, and blue. Bucky pulled a face when Clint caught up with them. Steve took the offered piece with a small smile. At least he seemed happier.

“Barton.”

“What?”

“Really?” Bucky tore off a chunk of cotton candy.

Clint popped a bit into his mouth, letting the sugar melt on this tongue. “I had a five in my pocket. Sue me.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but made no further protest. Clint cherished his little act of rebellion. He knew Buck was trying to do something nice for him, but he still felt weird not doing his share. They walked along for a bit and Clint enjoyed the company, taking in the sights, listening to Buck and Steve chatter about their childhood. About fifteen minutes later, Steve broke the silence.

“What now?” he asked. They stopped. A slow grin spread across Bucky’s face as he turned to face the wooden roller coaster beside them. Clint got the treat of seeing Captain Reckless go pale. “No. Bucky, no.”

Hooking an arm around Steve’s waist, Bucky tucked Steve into his side. “C’mon, Stevie, it’ll be fun.”

For the first time Clint could remember, Steve actually tried to get away from Buck. “That’s exactly what you said the last time and it was not fun, it was horrible.”

Bucky batted his lashes. “Please, Stevie? You’re way bigger now. You’ll be okay. After all, it’s good to face your fears.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t wanna. Take Clint.”

Clint shrugged, amused. “I guess you can stay on the ground if you want to. I won’t tell anyone you chickened out.” Steve furrowed his brow, wavering, and Clint chuckled.

Bucky poked out his bottom lip, making his eyes big. “Just stand in line with us while we wait, then?” Seeing the momentary crack in Steve’s resolve, Bucky took his arm, guiding him toward the line. “You might change your mind, baby.”

“No, I won’t.”

The three of them waited, Steve getting paler each time they moved closer to the ride. He balked when the usher gestured them to the front car.

“No, no, no. Bucky, no.”

Bucky kept a firm, yet gentle hold on Steve’s arms. “It’s okay, we’ll sit in the back. It’s fine.”

Steve let Buck lure him to the back of the car, taking the outside seat to keep Steve from bolting. Nice. Clint really was trying not to laugh. He stepped into the car in front of them, but the lap bar wouldn’t fit over his legs, even when he crossed his ankles. Well, damn.

“Sorry, son,” the ride operator said. “Too tall.”

Clint climbed out, patting Bucky's shoulder. “Sorry, guys.” 

Steve was so white, he was almost green. “Bucky, let me out.”

“Aw, Stevie, don’t make me ride by myself. You can hold my hand and I’ll make sure you’re okay. Promise.”

He shook his head. “If Clint’s too tall, I’m probably too tall, and there’s kids who wanna ride, and—“

Bucky lowered the lap bar. It clicked into place, locking Steve down.

Steve let out a high-pitched whine, burying his face in Bucky’s neck.

Oh, this was great. Mister Jawline of Justice, afraid of a roller coaster. Clint rocked back on his heels. “Can I stand here and wave my friends off?” he asked the operator.

“Sure.”

Steve looked up a Clint with large, pleading eyes as the ride rocked into motion. Clint wiggled his fingers, unable to stop the little laugh that escaped him. 

Clint would bet his best bow the next three minutes were the longest of Steve Rogers’ life. He waited from them to disembark, and sure enough, Steve was clinging to Bucky’s arm for dear life. Aw. Bucky grinned at Clint as they made their way over.

“See? Everything was fine. Over in a flash, and you came through all right, didn’t you, Stevie?” Bucky turned his head, but Steve was gone. “Steve?”  
Clint winced. Steve was currently bent over a trashcan, head bowed, shoulders hunched. It was Bucky’s turn to look guilty.

“Oh, honey,” he said, going to Steve and resting a hand on his back. “I didn’t think it’d get to ya. I mean, you made a career outta jumping from planes and shit. I thought it was nerves.”

“Why do you . . . hate me?” Steve gasped. “This is . . . what happened last time.”

“Aw, no, last time you puked on the ride. At least this time you made it to a trashcan.”

Steve glared.

Bucky turned to Clint. “Keep an eye on him? I’m gonna grab him some water.”

“Sure.” 

Steve whimpered, but at least he’d stopped throwing up. His voice come muffled from inside the trashcan. “He’s so mean, Clint. Why is Bucky so mean to me?”

Clint patted his back. He felt a little bad about his glee over Steve’s worry. A little. Bucky returned a minute later, offering the water to Steve. Steve swished a bit before spitting it out into the trash.

“Feel better, baby?” Bucky asked. Steve shook his head, misery written all over his face. “Aw, c’mere. I really am sorry,” Bucky said, rubbing Steve’s back. “Why don’t we walk along the beach, yeah?”

Steve sniffled. For a second, Clint saw the scrawny kid who couldn’t stay out of fights if his life depended on it and something clicked. Steve couldn’t exactly make himself unnoticeable, but he did look smaller. He’d learned more about Steve in the last hour than he’d learned in three years of working with the guy and Clint was beginning to catch on. It wasn’t “little Steve” and “Captain America”; he was the same guy, but with a body to match. One he was probably still getting used to.

“That was cruel, Buck,” Steve whimpered. He pulled Bucky over to a bench and sat. When Bucky followed, Steve practically collapsed into his lap. “I’ve always been good to you, and you made me do something I didn’t want to. Like all those times you dragged me out on double dates.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Or made you wear a jacket when it was freezing, or spent our rent money on medicine when you were sick,” Bucky countered.

“Those are not the same things.”

“Things you didn’t want to do.”

“Fine.” Steve let out a heavy sigh. Clint smirked. Yup, same guy. Steve was gonna guilt Bucky for all he was worth.

Bucky gave Clint a knowing look. Of course this wasn't the first time they'd played this game. “What can I do to make it up to you, baby?”

“Well,” Steve said, drawing circles on Bucky’s leg, “there is that new art exhibit at the MoMA.”

“I’ll get tickets when we get home, okay?”

“And I do need a couple new pencils.”

“We can swing by the art supply, too,” he said, long-suffering but bemused.

Steve paused, pressing closer. “And Sam and Natasha want to do a double date thing when she’s back in town. Dinner.”

Bucky grimaced. “There it is. I knew there’d be something I didn’t wanna do. Fine. We’ll go out. Happy?”

Steve sat up, looking 100% better and grinning. “Right as rain.”

Blank faced, Bucky shoved Steve off his lap. He hit the sand laughing, and Clint couldn't remember hearing Steve sound so genuinely happy. Buck stood, crossing his arms. “You know, sometimes I miss the days where I could pick you up and throw you over my shoulder.”

Casually, Steve brushed himself off and then directed a look at Clint. Clint’s eyes widened as Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist and picked him up, setting him over his shoulder. “I think it’s time for ice cream. Whaddya say, Clint?”

“Put me down, punk!” Bucky snarled, trying to kick but Steve kept him unbalanced. No leverage, no escape.

“Ice cream sounds great,” Clint said, grinning back.

Bucky slumped in defeat, glowering at Clint as Steve carried him back up the beach. Clint had to admit the day had been super weird, but he couldn’t deny he was having a great time. Bucky transferred his glare to Steve when he eventually regained his feet. Steve calmly leaned forward and kissed the tip of Bucky’s nose. He laughed again as Bucky shoved him back with his metal hand, swiping at his face with the other.

Clint stepped between them, smiling enough that his face ached. “I believe I was promised ice cream, boys.”

The ice cream place looked like something out of 1930, and Steve and Buck both perked up. They picked a four-top, Buck and Steve sitting across from each other with Clint between them. He kicked his legs; the sign outside said they made the biggest sundae in New York. 

They weren’t wrong. 

He stared at the trough of ice cream, piled high with hot fudge, sprinkles, cherries, and pistachios. Three sparklers towered above it all, with three spoons sunk into the glorious sugary mess. 

Clint felt Bucky’s foot knock into his leg. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Want us to sing ‘Happy Birthday?’”

“Please god no. Just eat.” Clint picked up a spoonful, raised it in salute, and ate it. Thankfully, Steve and Buck did the same. They chatted aimlessly, Bucky cracking jokes while Steve ducked his head and blushed. At one point, Bucky threw a cherry at him and told him to “do it.” Steve popped it into his mouth and a few seconds later stuck out his tongue; he’d tied the stem into a knot. 

“Neat parlor trick, Cap,” Clint said. Of all Steve Rogers’ talents, Clint would not have guessed that one.

“Back in the day, the number of cherries on your sundae was a method for flirting. The more you had, the more the bartender liked you,” Steve said. “I, uh, never got any.”

“Sure you did, pal,” Bucky answered, and Clint guessed from the rising color in Steve’s face that Bucky had hooked his other leg around Steve’s. 

Eventually, Bucky reached back for his wallet. Clint smirked when he came up short. “Uh, Stevie, did I give you my wallet?”

“No. Did you lose it on the Cyclone?” There was only a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“Ha ha. I did not lose it. I had it, and-”

Nonchalant, Clint held up Bucky’s wallet. Bucky stared. “Payback’s a bitch, bro.”

“How the hell did you do that? When the hell did you do that?”

“I snatched it in line for the Cyclone.” He held up his own wallet before tossing Bucky’s back to him. “Haven’t been caught doing a lift since I was twelve and that guy broke my arm,” Clint said. He snapped his mouth shut a little too quickly. That was _three_ times today. Well, maybe the archery thing didn’t count. It’s not like they didn’t know he was an arrows guy. 

Clint forced the tension out of his shoulders. He wasn’t careless. He couldn’t be. But . . . sharing a little bit should be okay. He liked these guys. He felt comfortable around them. Clint wouldn’t just spill details of his life if he didn’t feel safe. A little shock pinged through him at the realization of _how_ safe he felt.

Bucky pointed at him with his spoon. “You’d have loved Falsworth. That man could steal anything. One time, he managed to requisition a month’s supply of chocolate and booze, the most scandalous deck of poker cards you’ve ever seen, and a whole trunk of new socks. Even nabbed some nice nylons for Carter. I’m telling ya, there’s nothing better than new socks after weeks of wearing the same pair. Ugh.”

Steve dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clatter. “I’m out. Guys?”

“Yeah, I’m calling it, too. Supersoldier metabolism’s great and all, but even I have my limits,” Bucky agreed.

Clint scoffed. “Wimps.” He threw down his spoon, then leaned back in his chair. “Guess you’re not letting me buy my own birthday sundae, eh?” “Not a chance. Thanks for the cotton candy, by the way,” Bucky said, rocking Clint’s chair just a little. 

Pfft, like he could make Clint lose his balance.

The sun was low by the time they left, lighting up the boardwalk in red and orange. Clint felt _good_ , light and warm and happy. He still didn’t get the point of celebrating his birthday, but it’d been a damn good day overall. He was glad Buck dragged him out of the apartment. 

Clint gave them both a side hug. “Today was great.”

Buck looked pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I ate hot dogs, broke into a lousy exhibit, contributed to the delinquency of a minor, had a gigantic sundae, _and_ I got to see Steve puke.” Steve blanched. Probably not his fondest memory of the day. Clint grinned. “Better than that, I got to spend today with my best buddies. Greatest birthday ever.”

Bucky hugged him back as they headed for the gates. 

A row of flashing lights caught Clint’s eye and he stopped. “Well, look at that. You two aren’t the only ancient things on this island.”

Steve snorted and Bucky slugged Clint in the arm, but Clint was busy dragging them over to the old fashioned photo booth. "You know what they say: pictures or it didn't happen." It was a tight fit, but they struggled in together. Clint shoved a couple bills into the slot before either of them could protest.

“Quick, how’s this work?”

“It’ll count down. We get four shots,” Steve said.

“Perfect.”

The little machine counted down, the series of flashes nearly blinding them. Steve almost fell out of the booth as they left. Clint snatched up the photo strip. 

Steve studied them over Clint’s shoulder. “Aw, I love that one,” he said, pointing to the first image. They were all smiling, looking at the camera. In the next two, they were making faces. “That’s the most ‘Bucky’ expression I’ve even seen.”

“I like this one,” Clint said, tapping the last one. They were laughing, knocking into each other in the confined booth.

“It’s a good one,” Bucky added.

Clint tore off the top two and handed them to Steve, keeping the other two for himself. He basked in his inner warm and fuzzy glow all the way back home. Steve and Buck dropped him at his place, complete with hugs and more ‘happy birthdays’. 

Lucky rubbed against his legs the minute he walked through the door. Clint scratched at his ears. “I got some great friends, Lucky.” He took the photos out of his wallet and tucked him away in a drawer, nice and safe, then smiled to himself. “Heh. Happy birthday to me.”


End file.
